Parentheses: Driven to Mediocrity

Last week's post was set up to be the first in the series.  I know this because I was there when I wrote it.  However, in the meantime, a colleague and friend, Preston Wheatley, issued an invitation for me to write for his excellent car buyer's blog, which you can find here.  Being the massively insecure former fat kid (And currently fat adult) that I am, I didn't want to start writing for the site until I had formally auditioned.  Below is the piece I wrote for said audition.  I enjoyed it, so I thought I would interrupt my series to present it here.  I hope you enjoy it, too.

(Side note:  Preston tried very hard to be positive about the piece, God bless his idealistic soul, but he ultimately had to ask me to "turn it down" with regards to references to certain demographic groups.  I explained that, for this reason, I might not be a good fit for his site, because I don't really know how to turn anything down without becoming so boring that you might as well be in an accounting workshop.  (Oh, look, now I've offended the accountants, as well...)  So, we are still working on a compromise.  If I eventually do make it to his site you, Constant Reader, will be the first to know.  Also, please visit the website, it really is quite good.  End side note)

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Let me be up front:  The bulk of my knowledge about cars comes from playing entirely too many Need For Speed video games.  But, unlike the majority of my gaming compatriots, I realize that being able to perfectly execute a handbrake turn on a digitized Nürburgring in a digitized Porsche Carrera doesn’t mean that I should try to drift a Fiat Palio around the sliplane that joins William Nicol to Jan Smuts.  I drive like a thirtysomething man with poor eyesight, because that’s exactly what I am.  I own a Nissan Tiida with a booster seat in the back, because it is safe, reliable, cheap to run and my son doesn’t sit still unless I strap him down like a mental patient and give him a packet of Nik Naks.  I never dreamt of being some kind of racing god, because I’m too poor, too easily frightened and have crappy reflexes.  No, give me a PC, a copy of Need For Speed:  Shift and a large salami pizza, and I am in my own personal driving Nirvana.

For all of the above-mentioned reasons, my knowledge of (Real-life) cars is limited to the following:

-          They have four wheels and a windscreen.

-          The big, fast ones attract the type of women that you don’t want to introduce to your mother, but that you do want to be seen with in photos on Facebook.

-          The nice ones that you really should be driving are beyond the fiscal means of mortal men like myself.

-          If your car starts making funny noises, phone your dad and ask him what the problem is.

o   If Daddy doesn’t know, take it to a mechanic, but never let them know that you don’t know what words like “manifold” and “naturally aspirated” mean.  Showing ignorance to your mechanic means that your wife will have to kiss that beach holiday goodbye for the next couple years.

-          South Africans all want to drive BMWs, SUVs and whatever make and model the Indians in the office are raving about this week. 

o   But all South Africans still drive like assholes.

But, it is for this reason that I am the perfect “Man in the Street” to review cars and dealerships.  I don’t care about how many torques per nanometer that a car gets out of its low-slung carabinator, I care about the following:

-          Are myself, my wife and my son safe?

-          Am I going to piss money against the wall on petrol and maintenance?

-          Do annoying people drive that particular make and model of car?  By annoying people, I mean:

o   Soccer moms.

o   Students.

o   Investment bankers and yuppies in general.

o   Old, rich, entitled white ladies.

-          Do I, at 1.87m tall and 113 kilos, fit into the car?

o   More importantly, do I fit into the car without leaning the seat so far back that I look like a drug dealer?

-          Is the salesman going to try to convince me that living without the car is like living without sunlight and sex?  Because I can live without sunlight and sex, as long as I have a way to get to work.

It is with this in mind that I approach any and every piece I do for this site.  I am not Jeremy Clarkson, I cannot tell you how much fun it is to throw a car around a custom designed racetrack, because if I tried that I would kill everyone in a 5 kilometre radius.  But I can tell you if a car is a smooth, safe and comfortable drive, and if the means to acquiring the car was hassle-free and easy.  At the end of the day, isn’t that something that you would rather know?